


New Mexico

by penhales



Category: True Detective
Genre: Brief Violent Flashback, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 07:04:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9589967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penhales/pseuds/penhales
Summary: “People grow out of old habits sometimes, Rust.”“Sometimes. But you know that thing they say about old dogs learning new tricks.”(One Shot, No Smut, Rated mostly for a violent flashback)





	

Holding his girls’ hands in his own, Marty loses control and cries. And he can’t entirely remember the last time he’d done it. His mind is completely fuzzy with sheer relief and already forcing down the newly formed memories of Carcosa, already sealing them away behind a padlocked door he has no intention of ever opening again.

“I’m fine. Yeah, I’ll be fine. I am fine.”

And he’s not fine, not even by a long shot. He knows his family knows it, gathered around him in a way that he also knows he doesn’t deserve at all. He’s so glad to see them, but he can’t enjoy it because he also wishes that they hadn’t come to see him and just left him to his solitary penance, and at the same time that he’s trying to smile for his girls, he thinks of Rust.

Rust is still under, and rightfully so; his tired vessel of a body has suffered more injuries than ever before. Marty can still recall the feeling of some kind of sympathy pain in his own gut, cancelling out the pain of his own wounds as he attempted to keep Rust’s insides inside of him. Rust was less careful. The removal of the knife was something that Marty _knew_ Rust knew better about, and holding Rust’s head in his lap, Rust’s blood spilling slowly under his left hand, he had to pray to a higher power. He muttered every prayer he knew, hoping too that Rust wouldn’t hear him and use his last breaths to wheeze out a philosophical correction.

Maggie squeezes his hand once as his breathing evens and releases it.

“We’re glad you’re still here with us.”

She says, her eyes warm and nearly matching the concerned expressions Maisie and Audrey are wearing.

After he’s calm again, he asks if they’d stay a while, but Maggie’s concerned about tiring him out and she’s quick to guide their daughters out of the room and into the hallway. He hadn’t expected them to stay as long as they had in the first place, it’s more than enough. Maggie turns back to him and says,

“If you need anything, feel free to call. We really are glad you came out alright. _I’m_ glad you came out alright.”

He smiles and nods at them, and he keeps a stiff lower lip after they’ve gone because he’s _Dad_ and he’s going to be _fine_.

 

\------------------------------------------------------

 

He ends up deciding to support Rust’s decision to leave the hospital because he knows that Rust can’t stay behind walls for too long. Rustin Cohle’s the kind of guy who looks, as tall and lean as he is, like he should be living in a cabin out in some woods by himself, with a great beard and flannels. Some kind of strange mountain man stranded in the Alaskan tundra with nothing but some canned goods, a knife, and a rifle.

Rust’s eyes have gone wild, watching Lafayette fly by as if he’s nearly blind to it. It’s the kind of far away and hopeful look that Marty finds worrisome. He presses the executive automatic lock button on his door.

“Is there anywhere in particular you’re wanting to go to?”

“Doing some thinking about New Mexico.”

“New Mexico? Hell, I was talking about an apartment or something. Not that I’d be letting you putter around in it all on your own. All those stiches in you.”

“Nothing wrong with New Mexico.”

“Well, for starters, Rust, I don’t have that kind of gas money.”

Which was a complete lie, because he really did have it, stowed safely away in a savings account for emergencies only. Maggie used to always get after him about not having saved enough back, and he knew she was right to. One of his many shortcomings.

“Got anything else, Marty?”

“I got a business to run. I can’t be taking time off to go chase after you around reservations and shit.”

“You wouldn’t be doing any chasing, old man, I’d go on my own. Unless you’re interested in coming with me.”

“Okay, Rust, I’m about done with your chatter already and we’ve barely been in this car for twenty minutes. Unless you’ve got any kind of concrete ideas about where you’d like to go, we’re heading to my place.”

“I’m serious. Want you to come with me and stay.”

“And I am telling you to stay here.”

What remains unsaid ( _if we’re together, why does where matter?_ ) stays caught in both of their throats the rest of the way back to Marty’s condo. It’s got to be an unspoken contract between them, but it’s true that they’ve got no one else left except for each other. It’s also true that they’re grown-ass men and not supposed to talk about it that way, so Marty’s left biting his tongue and Rust lets himself get lost in the passing lights again.

 

\------------------------------------------------------

 

Marty’s place is bigger than Rust expected, but he can’t say he didn’t expect the impeccably kept lawn out front. Even in the dark, Rust can see the neatly shorn grass and the beautifully kept mulch beds. The landscaping is untouchable as far as single-middle-aged-man landscaping goes. Then again, Marty’s been a man of the suburbs most of his life. He’s learned “what to do” and “the right way to do it” in a way that Rust believes he’ll never really learn. There are remnants left, how to mow a lawn, when to put up the flag, how to invite folks over for a barbecue. It doesn’t matter to him now, so he’s elected to forget.

“Not too bad, Marty.”

“Thanks. Don’t get to be home much these days, been busy.”

Rust nods knowingly and leans away a little from Marty’s supporting shoulder. He can tell by the marks on the old front door that either Marty or the tenant before him has changed the lock often. More than likely, it’s just Marty’s precautions.

“Getting a lot of visitors since moving in?”

Something in the way Marty turns to him in the darkness of the doorway and his face is shadowed over answers Rust’s question without further prompting.

“People grow out of old habits sometimes, Rust.”

“Sometimes. But you know that thing they say about old dogs learning new tricks.”

Marty doesn’t answer back and Rust recognizes it as his cue to ‘quit it’. Marty flips the light switch in the entry way and offers Rust a hand to get over the step into the house. Of course there’s no surprise that the house is sparsely decorated and furnished basically for one, except for the beat up old futon in the living room, which can only hold two at best. Marty lowers him onto the futon with some difficulty and grumbles about his back, though Rust knows it’s not the worst of his injuries bothering him.

“You hungry?”

Marty looks through the gap below the cabinets and above the kitchen countertop at him. Rust closes his eyes and leans his head back against the back of the couch.

“No.”

Light dances behind his eyelids and distracts him temporarily from the roaring pain in his gut. They’ve patched him up, but he can still feel the push of his insides against the stiches. Deep inside, he knew it had felt like some kind of sweet release, the blade meeting his flesh and taking from him. He’d waited for it to happen so many times in his life and no one ever got close enough to actually meet their mark save for Childress. Even then, Childress was sloppy and didn’t finish the job. His hand rests over his war wound and he thinks about what it will look like on his skin once it’s closed up. He considers what his face will look like by the time it’s closed up. He doesn’t heal like he used to and can expect to live with the wound for quite a while yet, more and more wrinkles stretched thin over sharp bones. Marty won’t let him go before time, either. And by then, Rust knows he won’t very well want to leave.  

Rust’s eyes slide open when Marty gently shakes his shoulder.

“You weren’t answering back to me.”

“Sorry. Not dead yet.”

Marty’s gentle chuckle sends warmth spreading through his chest, prickling his ribs.

“I’m gonna need to crawl into bed for a few hours, Rust. What are you gonna need from me?”

“I’m comfortable here. No reason I can’t sleep this off. In the morning I’m gonna need a ride to New Mexico.”

“Ha-ha, you’re funny. You’re not going anywhere for a while, old man.”

Marty very carefully guides him off of the futon, which he decides to politely protest, though he knows he’d really like to sleep in a real bed. As the case had gone on, Rust found it more and more difficult find sleep successfully and he misses the feel of a mattress under his aging back.

“I can just sleep out there, there’s no need for this.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re still in a damn hospital gown and you’re gonna need some solid sleep if you’re ever getting better.”

He thinks of the new creases forming in the skin on his dry bones and it’s enough to make him clam-up. His mortality is spiraling closer anyway, what difference will it make whether he’s slept in Marty’s bed again or not?

Marty helps him very gently into a pair of sweatpants with the most worn out elastic he’s ever experienced, but he can’t complain because at least he finally has some pants on. Marty’s t-shirt fits similarly, stretched out in places. Plenty of room in the belly. Rust has some difficulty getting past the fact that it smells like him. A little bit of sweat, a little bit of soap, and something sweet that Rust knows is familiar, but chooses to ignore. He leans against the wall nearest the bed while Marty opens the sheets for him and that’s when the gratitude hits him like some kind of emotional poisoning.

“Thank you.”

He says before he can stop himself. Marty looks back at him as if he’s just announced he’s decided to move to Russia. Rust’s eyes are on the floor, but he can see Marty’s expression soften out of the corner of his eye.

“That ain’t necessary, Rust.”

Marty helps him carefully into bed, a hand underneath his back to help him stretch out without ripping the doctor’s handiwork.

“You just get some sleep, you’ll be feeling well enough not to be thanking me for shit tomorrow.”

“Where’re you gonna sleep?”

“Well, you’re not sleeping on your own, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Sure enough, once he’s changed as well, Marty slides under the sheets next to him. God knows it’s hardly the first time it’s ever happened, but it’s the first time in a long time. Rust listens to the familiar and calm rhythm of Marty’s breaths for hours. This time there’s no coiled sense of regret in his gut and no perfume lingering on the pillow underneath his head. This time all he can hear is slow breathing and feel a warmth at his back that will still be around when he wakes. New Mexico is less appealing.


End file.
